During the tiresome _siestas_ of Vilamorta, while the visitors to
the springs digested their glasses of mineral water and compensated
themselves for the loss of their morning sleep by a restorative nap,
the amateur musicians of the popular band practiced by themselves the
pieces they were shortly to execute together. From the shoemaker's
shop came the melancholy notes of a flute; in the baker's resounded
the lively and martial strains of the horn; in the tobacconist's
moaned a clarionet; in the cloth-shop, the suppressed sighs of an
ophicleide filled the air. Those who thus devoted themselves to the
worship of Euterpe were clerks in shops, younger sons, the youthful
element of Vilamorta. These snatches of melody rose with piercing
sonorousness on the drowsy warm atmosphere. When the news spread that
Don Victoriano Andres de la Comba and his family were expected to
arrive within twenty-four hours in the town, to leave it again
immediately for Las Vides, the brass band was tuned to the highest
pitch and ready to deafen, with any number of waltzes, dances, and
quicksteps, the ears of the illustrious statesman.
In the town an unusual animation was noticeable. Agonde's house
was opened, ventilated, and swept, clouds of dust issuing through the
windows, at one of which, later on, appeared Agonde's sister, with a
fringe of hair over her forehead and wearing a pearl-shell necklace.
The housekeeper of the parish priest of Cebre, a famous cook, went
busily about the kitchen, and the pounding of the mortar and the
sizzling of oil could be heard. Two hours before the time of the
arrival of the stage-coach from Orense, that is to say at three
o'clock in the afternoon, the committee of the notabilities of the
Combista-radical party were already crossing the plaza, and Agonde
stood waiting on the threshold of his shop, having sacrificed to the
solemnity of the occasion his classic cap and velvet slippers, and
wearing patent-leather boots and a frock coat which made him look
more bull-necked and pot-bellied than ever. The coach from Orense was
entering the town from the side next the wood, and, at the tinkling
of the bells, the clatter of the hoofs of its eight mules and ponies,
the creaking of its unwieldy bulk, the inhabitants of Vilamorta
looked out of their windows and came to their doors; the reactionary
shop only remained closed and hostile. When the cumbrous vehicle
turned into the square the excitement increased; barefooted children
climbed on the coach steps, begging an _ochavo_ in whining accents;
the fruit-women sitting in the arches straightened themselves up to
obtain a better view, and only Cansin, the clothier, his hands in his
trousers' pockets, his feet thrust into slippers, continued walking
up and down his shop with an Olympic air of indifference. The
overseer reined in the team, saying in soothing accents to a
rebellious mule:
"E-e-e-e-e-e-h! There, there, Canóniga."
The brass band, drawn up before the town-hall, burst into a
deafening prelude, and the first rocket whizzed into the air sending
forth a shower of sparks. The crowd rushed _en masse_ toward the door
of the coach, to offer their hands, their arms, anything, and a stout
lady and a priest, with a cotton checked handkerchief tied around his
temples, alighted from it. Agonde, more amused than angry, made signs
to the musicians and the rocket-throwers to desist from their task.
"He is not coming yet! he is not coming yet!" he shouted. In
effect, there were no other passengers in the omnibus. The overseer
hastened to explain:
"They are just behind, not two steps off, as one might say. In
Count de Vilar's carriage, in the barouche. On the Señora's account.
The luggage is here. And they paid for the seats as if they had
occupied them."
It was not long before the measured trot of Count de Vilar's pair
of horses was heard and the open carriage, of an old-fashioned style,
rolled majestically into the plaza. Reclining on the back seat was a
man enveloped, notwithstanding the heat, in a cloth cloak; at his
side sat a lady in a gray linen duster, the fanciful brim of her
traveling-hat standing out sharply against the pure blue of the sky.
In the front seat sat a little girl of some ten years and a
_mademoiselle_, a sort of transpyrenean nursery governess. Segundo,
who had kept in the background at the arrival of the diligence, this
time was less stubborn and the hand which, covered with a long Suède
glove, was stretched out in quest of a support, met with the
energetic and nervous pressure of another hand. The Minister's lady
looked with surprise at the gallant, gave him a reserved salutation
and, taking the arm Agonde offered her, walked quickly into the
apothecary's.
The statesman was slower in alighting. His adherents looked at
him with surprise. He had changed greatly since his last visit to
Vilamorta--then in the midst of the revolution--some eight or ten
years before. His iron-gray hair, whiter on the temples, heightened
the yellow hue of his complexion; the whites of his eyes, too, were
yellow and streaked with little red veins; and his furrowed and
withered countenance bore unmistakable traces of the anxieties of the
struggle for social position, the vicissitudes of the political
bench, and the sedentary labors of the forum. His frame hung loosely
together, being wanting in the erectness which is the sign of
physical vigor. When the handshakings began, however, and the
"Delighted to see you----" "At last----" "After an age----" resounded
around him, the dying gladiator revived, straightened himself up, and
an amiable smile parted his thin lips, lending a pleasing expression
to the now stern mouth. He even opened his arms to Genday, who
squirmed in them like an eel, and he clapped the Alcalde on the back.
García, the lawyer, tried to attract attention to himself, to
distinguish himself among the others, saying in the serious tone of
one who expresses an opinion in a very delicate matter:
"There, upstairs, upstairs now, to rest and to take some
refreshment."
At last the commotion calmed down, the great man entering the
apothecary's, followed by García, Genday, the Alcalde, and Segundo.
They seated themselves in Agonde's little parlor, respectfully
leaving to Don Victoriano the red rep sofa, around which they drew
their chairs in a semi-circle. Shortly afterward the ladies made
their appearance, and, now without her hat, it could be seen that
Señora de Comba was young and beautiful, seeming rather the elder
sister than the mother of the little girl. The latter, with her
luxuriant hair falling down her back and her precocious womanly
seriousness, had the aspect of a sickly plant, while her mother, a
smiling blonde, seemed overflowing with health. They spoke of the
journey, of the fertile borders of the Avieiro, of the weather, of
the road; the conversation was beginning to languish, when Agonde's
sister entered opportunely, preceded by the housekeeper of the
priest, carrying two enormous trays filled with smoking cups of
chocolate, for supper was a meal unknown to the hosts. When the trays
were set on the table and the chocolate handed around, the company
grew more animated. The Vilamortans, finding a congenial subject on
which to exercise their oratorical powers, began to press the
strangers, to eulogize the excellence of the viands, and calling
Señora de la Comba by her baptismal name, and adding an affectionate
diminutive to that of the little girl, they launched forth into
exclamations and questions.
"Is the chocolate to your taste, Nieves?"
"Do you like it thin or thick?"
"Nieves, take that morsel of cake for my sake; you will find it
excellent; only we have the secret of making it."
"Come, Victoriniña, don't be bashful; that fresh butter goes very
well with the hot bread."
"A morsel of toasted sponge-cake. Ah-ha! You don't have cake like
that in Madrid, eh?"
"No," answered the girl, in a clear and affected voice. "In
Madrid we eat crullers and doughnuts with our chocolate."
"It is the fashion here to take sponge-cake with it, not
crullers. Take that one on the top, that brown one. That's nothing, a
bird could eat it."
Don Victoriano joined in the conversation, praising the bread,
saying he could not eat it, as it had been absolutely prohibited to
him, for his malady required that he should abstain from starch and
gluten in every form--indeed, he had bread sent him from France,
bread prepared _ad hoc_ without those elements--and as he spoke, he
turned toward Agonde, who nodded with an air of intelligence, showing
that he understood the Latin phrase. And Don Victoriano regretted
doubly the prohibition now, for there was no bread to be compared to
the Vilamorta bread--which was better of its kind than cake, yes
indeed. The Vilamortans smiled, highly flattered, but García, with an
eloquent shake of the head, said that the bread was deteriorating,
that it was not now what it had formerly been, and that only Pellejo,
the baker of the plaza, made it conscientiously, having the patience
to select the wheat, grain by grain, not letting a single wormeaten
one pass. It was for this reason that his loaves turned out so sweet
and substantial. Then a discussion arose as to whether bread should
be porous or the contrary, and as to whether hot bread was wholesome.
Don Victoriano, reanimated by these homely details, talked of his
childhood, of the slices of bread spread with butter or molasses
which he used to eat between meals, and when he added that his uncle,
the priest, occasionally administered a sound drubbing to him, a
smile once more softened the deep lines of his face. This expansion
of feeling gave a sweeter expression to his countenance, effacing
from it the traces left by years of strife, the scars of the wounds
received in the battle of life, illuminating it with a reflection
from his vanished youth. How he longed to see again a grapevine in
Las Vides from which he had robbed grapes a hundred times when he was
a child.
"And you will rob them again now," exclaimed Clodio Genday gayly.
"We must tell the master of Las Vides to put a guard over the vine of
Jaen."
The jest was received with demonstrations of hilarity, and the
girl laughed with her shrill laugh at the idea of her papa robbing a
grapevine. Segundo only smiled. His eyes were fixed on Don
Victoriano, and he was thinking of what his life had been. He went
over in his mind the history of the great man: At Segundo's age Don
Victoriano, too, was an obscure lawyer, buried in Vilamorta, eager to
break from the shell. He had gone to Madrid, where a celebrated
jurisconsult had taken him as his assistant. The jurisconsult was a
politician, and Victoriano followed in his footsteps. How did he
begin to prosper? This period was shrouded in obscurity. Some said
one thing, some another. Vilamorta found him, when it least expected,
its candidate and representative. Once in Congress Don Victoriano's
importance grew steadily, and when the Revolution of September came
it found him in a sufficiently exalted position to be improvised a
minister. The brief ministry gave him neither time to wear out his
popularity nor to give proof of special gifts, and, with his prestige
almost intact, the Restoration admitted him as a member of a
fusionist cabinet. He had just laid down the portfolio and come to
re-establish his shattered health in his native place, where his
influence was strong and incontestible, thanks to his alliance with
the illustrious house of Mendez de las Vides. Segundo asked himself
if a lot like Don Victoriano's would satisfy his aspirations. Don
Victoriano had wealth--stocks in banks and shares in railways among
whose directors the name of the able jurisconsult figured. Our
versifier raised his eyebrows disdainfully and glanced at the
Minister's wife; that graceful beauty certainly did not love her
lord. She was the daughter of a younger son of the house of Las
Vides--a magistrate; she had probably married her husband, allured by
his position. No; most assuredly the poet did not envy the
politician. Why had this man risen to the eminent position he
occupied? What extraordinary gifts did he possess? A diffuse
parliamentary orator, a passive minister, with some forensic
ability--sum total, a mediocrity.
While these reflections were passing through Segundo's mind,
Señora de Comba amused herself by examining minutely the dress and
the appearance of everyone present. She took in every detail, under
her half-closed lids, of the toilet of Carmen Agonde, who was arrayed
in a tight-fitting deep blue bodice that sent the blood to her
plethoric cheeks. She next lowered her mocking glance to the
patent-leather boots of the pharmacist, and then raised them again to
Clodio Genday's fingers, stained by the cigar, and the purple and
white checked velvet waistcoat of the lawyer García. Finally, her
glance fell on Segundo, in critical examination of his attire. But
another glance, steady and ardent, cast it back like a shield.